The Bourne Resurgence
by Hawkward Russian
Summary: *Sequel to The Bourne Rebellion* Ten years after Aaron Cross and Jason Bourne exposed the black ops programs, Outcome and Blackbriar, a figure from Aaron's past resurfaces, forcing both operatives back into the spy game - this time battling the collective power of Iron Hand, and an enemy so powerful and mysterious, even the CIA themselves are out of their depth.
1. With Friends Like This

**A/N:**

 **Here it is!**

 **Sorry all for the delay, I was in Tahoe with no internet. But here is the first chapter of your sequel, finally! I'm SO excited to bring back all my favorite characters, and a few more.**

 **So. Read. Enjoy. Review!**

 **WARNING: The following contains major spoilers for _Jason Bourne._ I strongly advise you to watch that first, as well as read my first story, _The Bourne Rebellion,_ if you haven't already. **

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**_The Bourne Resurgence_**

 **Aaron:**

I cried the day I found out. We all did. Though I bore the news with a stony face at first, later I found Marta in the back bedroom sobbing, and after taking her in my arms, we both grieved together.

Nikki was dead. Murdered by an elite D-track government assassin after she dug a little too deep in her search for answers.

We had learned the news from Jason himself. After an anxious week of knowing something was up, as every news telecaster in the country couldn't stop squawking about the whirlwind of scandals and conspiracies going on behind Deep Dream, with no word from either Jason or Nikki, the ex-Treadstone agent had suddenly shown up on our doorstep with the news that Parsons had been shot.

Anyone could see he blamed himself. The past year had been rough for him and Nikki, regarding their relationship. Parsons, eager to burn the CIA down to the ground for all of its corruption, sought to press Bourne into joining the fight with her once more to bring to light more than just Byer's dealings with Outcome. Bourne, on the other hand, was sick and tired of playing the spy game. He wanted to fall off the grid, once and for all. To live out a peaceful life. A life he chose for himself.

I couldn't blame him.

After months of constant disagreement, surfacing in more than one area, the two of them separated - Nikki joining a hacktivist group set on exposing the CIA and its programs, and Jason running away to find his solitude and peace of mind in beating the crap out of sweaty workmen.

But when Nikki had approached him that night, claiming to have information on his father, the meet quickly leading to her death, Jason easily felt responsible. Not only had he not been able to protect her, but he had initially left her to operate on her own, with no one to watch her back. He told himself that he should have helped her. He should have protected her. He should have stayed with her.

His only consolation was that he killed the men responsible, and did his part to expose at least some of the corruption behind the CIA, as well as finding out the truth about his father - information Nikki died to give him.

The fact that the Asset was dead was the only reason I stayed in the house long enough to hear out Jason's story. A part of me almost half wished the assassin _was_ still alive - if only to have the satisfaction of being able to kill him myself.

As it was, however, there was nothing left to be done but mourn.

Together, the three of us and little James, now 6, held a small service in honor of Nikki, and afterwards it was arranged that Jason stay at the house for a few days, until he was ready to leave again.

So far, he had spent two nights in the spare bedroom upstairs.

I couldn't imagine it, as I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, the moonbeams shining through the trees outside and dancing in crazy patterns across the walls. I couldn't imagine losing the one I loved. For they had loved each other. The separation was more to give each other space than to finalize anything.

Beside me, the shadow of Marta's back loomed, her breathing rhythmic, while I could feel the warmth of her body through the sheets - her figure slightly distorted in the darkness, as she was now five months pregnant with our second child.

For a moment I stared, trying to imagine it. Trying to imagine her gone, James motherless, and the life we had built together destroyed.

I couldn't do it. Though the both of us had had our fair share of a troubled past, the life we lived now in a quiet suburban neighborhood - Marta trading in her lab coat to become a fulltime wife and mother, and myself curbing my unique skill set to protect others in the police force - it fit perfectly. Neither of us had any regrets. Any moment where we longed for "the good old days". We were happy. We were at peace. And neither of us could ever imagine having to return to what we were before…

Suddenly, I tensed. It was more of an instinctual response, than a purposeful action.

Something was wrong. And somewhere, deep into my subconscious, my brain knew that - sharpened and fine tuned to react after years of training and living as an operative.

Some habits die hard, or never die at all.

Sitting up in bed, I strained my ears to listen, eyes trying to pierce the darkness with what little light the moon provided.

I could see and hear nothing.

Beside me, Marta stirred and lay a hand on my thigh, waking at my movement and staring up at me blearily. "Another nightmare?" she asked sleepily, curling up against my side.

"I don't know yet…. Did you hear that?" I hissed urgently, ears and eyes once more trying to pick up the whisper of sound I now wondered if I had imagined.

It had been so quiet and subtle I couldn't rightly distinguish what it was. A whisper of wind, or an exhaled breath?

"No, hear what? Aaron, what's going on?" Marta queried, her tone a little more anxious this time, while she propped herself up on her elbow to look at me.

"Shh," I silenced, holding up a hand, and she obediently clamped her mouth tight and looked from me to the darkness of the hallway.

My skin was tingling, every hair on end. It seemed like my very cells were screaming at me that something was wrong, though I couldn't pinpoint what or where.

"Marta, go get James," I ordered in a low, urgent tone, sliding fluidly out of bed and opening my bedside table drawer to produce my Beretta 92Fs, quietly checking to ensure a load was in the chamber.

On the other side of the bed, Marta scrambled out, eyes wide, but dutifully staying quiet and heading straight for the door that joined the bedroom to the nursery. I waited until she disappeared inside, before raising my gun and heading down the hallway.

I moved like a wraith down the hall, eyes fixed behind my sights and moving like one mechanism, one silent, controlled step following another, while every sense was on high alert.

 _Get out,_ my instinct screamed at me, _you're walking into a trap._ But I didn't care. Marta and James were in the bedroom right behind me. I had to ensure that they would be safe.

And all too soon, the trap was sprung.

Sensing movement to my left in a patch of shadow, I spun to face it, but before I could fire off a shot, a dark shape suddenly leapt out and latched onto my wrists, bodily slamming me up against the wall. Glass shattered as picture frames crashed to the floor, my Beretta clattering uselessly down the hall, while in the next instant I was staring down the barrel of a Glock 17, a polished fingernail, made pale in the moonlight, curling over the trigger.

I ducked a millisecond before the shot rang out, cutting it so close the explosion of gas singed my face and fragments of drywall fell into my hair, but didn't waste a moment lashing out in self-defense, delivering two lightning-fast blows to my attacker's kidneys, before using my low position to pick whoever it was up, and toss down the hall into the kitchen table.

 _A woman,_ the back part of my brain told my front, thinking back to my glimpse of the slender finger on the trigger. This was confirmed when I picked her up, feeling a lightweight frame and smooth skin - though surprisingly strong, as demonstrated by the amount of force I was slammed into the wall. _126 lbs, lithe, and fast reflexes,_ I mentally added to the small profile I was building, as I watched her shape curl in the air and land on her back on the table, using the momentum to carry her right off of it and land with a catlike grace.

I had barely enough time to take a few steps toward her, before I caught the tell-tale rasp of steel, and glint in the moonlight - giving me just enough warning to feint to the side as a throwing dagger flashed right by my face. The next second, and the chick used the momentary distraction to leap up on the corner of the table and wrap her thighs around my neck, her momentum flipping us both to the ground.

I fell hard, taking most of the impact and instantly feeling dazed and choked, before my eyes widened as in front of a halo of blonde hair, another blade flashed in the moonlight. My arms instantly came up to defend myself, but before either of us could make a move, I saw her head dart up to focus on something over my head further down the hall, before she made a desperate dive off of me and to the side, landing in a roll right as several shots rang out following her progress, chasing her across the kitchen floor.

 _Took you long enough, Bourne._

Timing it just right, I sent a targeted kick towards the table leg right as the woman moved to take cover behind it, and the result was the hardwood corner smacked her right in the temple, her head snapping back to hit the tile with an audible _smack._

Silence, and both Jason and I scurried around either end of the table, myself catching my fallen Beretta that he tossed to me as we did so, and both of us training our guns on the form sprawled out on the floor.

"Marta!" I called. "Get the lights!"

Neither Jason or I took our eyes off of the woman on the floor, but I could hear Marta scurry out of the bedroom behind me, James in her arms, and a moment later the lights flicked on.

The woman on the floor wasn't moving, a halo of blonde hair wild on the tile, while a trickle of wet, sticky blood was progressing steadily down along the side of her face.

"She's still alive," Jason announced, having crouched down to feel her pulse with two wary fingers, before quickly disarming her of another four blades lining her belt. "You okay, Cross?"

I didn't answer, still fixated on the woman's face, the arm holding my gun going slack with shock.

It was her.

The woman I never thought to see again was bleeding on my kitchen floor.

"Cross! What is it? Who is she?" Jason asked, looking from me to her, alarmed at my reaction.

"It's - It's her," I stammered, still staring.

"Who?! Aaron!"

With an effort I looked up at Jason, still in shock, then over at Marta who by this time had crowded in to see.

"It's her," I said again, speaking to Marta. "It's June Monroe."

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 **A/N:**

 **Dun, dun, duuhhhhh! I'm so excited to pump out this next chapter for all of you guys! But please, leave me a review, and thank you all for earlier ones!**

 **-Hawkward Russian**


	2. Who Needs Enemies

**A/N:**

 **A huge thank you to all of you lovely reviewers! (I can always count on you, DarkFay! And yay! New fan, Moonraven81!) Also, to all of you who followed and favorited.**

 **Apologies for taking so long with this update, but you know... Life can be a bee. :P**

 **Anywho, I'm really liking where this story will be heading, and hopefully you all will too. Its going to be very different from all the usual Bourne storylines, so hang on to your butts!**

 **-Hawkward Russian Out**

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 **Aaron:**

"For god's sake, Cross, stop pacing," Jason groaned from the corner.

Running a hand through my hair I stopped in the middle of my progress across the length of the scuffed cement floor, a trip I had made at least forty times within the past hour, and turned to glance at Jason.

"It won't make her wake up any faster," he said as if by way of explanation, his own person cool and collected in a wooden chair far too small for him, drawn up in the corner.

In answer I gave a halfhearted nod, and turned to once more check that the bonds on our prisoner were securely tied, pausing for a moment to look up into her face.

June Monroe.

My old partner. My old friend. The woman who I had thought died years ago, now attempting to murder me in my sleep.

"Its not safe for her to be here, you know." Jason murmured from the corner, his voice echoing strangely in the dank, old public restroom we were in.

"I know," I said, standing up from my crouch beside Monroe, who was still unconscious, sagging on the floor, handcuffed by both wrists in between two urinals. "Which is why we're in the restroom of an old burned out Elementary school, instead of back at the house."

"Aaron, the woman tried to kill you. Whatever allegiance the two of you used to owe each other, I think you can safely assume no longer applies."

"That's just it, Jason," I replied in a low murmur, still staring at the face of the woman before me. "She tried to kill me. The old June I used to know would never do such a thing. I need to know why."

Jason was quiet for a bit, his eyes watching me, before asking quietly "tell me about her?"

I sighed.

Digging up old memories was all I had been doing since Marta first switched on the kitchen lights.

"I first met her in boot camp, back before Outcome," I began. "Even before we were officially introduced, she stuck out. She was hot, the top of her class, feisty….all the guys loved her. But she was more than just a pretty face. She was kind. Caring. Strong. She took me in, in a way. Befriended me, watched my back, helped me through training…"

I sighed, shaking my head. "Honestly, she's the only reason I scraped through boot camp. She never judged me, you know? She took the time to get to know me beyond my deficiencies, and as a guy who can barely remember his own name, I worshipped her. She was my friend. My _only_ friend."

Jason nodded, his face soft. He was beginning to understand, and this time, when he looked at Monroe's unconscious form, I saw more curiosity in his eyes, than wariness.

"So what happened?" he asked.

Pacing over to the opposite wall, I sighed again and leaned against it, eyes staring at nothing as I relived the past.

"What happened is that we both graduated from boot camp, and were stationed at the same base in an active combat zone in Iraq—and even though we had two very different roles, we still looked out for each other. Until one morning her team rolled out, and never came back. The next day, news was around the base that she was KIA, her team victims of a surprise attack by insurgents."

I paused in my narrative, thinking back to that day. "It was like I lost the only form of family I ever had." Snapping out of my small trance, I glanced up at Jason. "That's why I don't understand, Bourne. There was no fight. There was no dramatic break in our friendship. We were as close from the time we met, all the way up until she died—or at least, I thought she did. I can't find any reason why she would want to murder me in my sleep!"

"And it's not just that," I continued. "It's _how_ she tried to kill me. There was something off about it. She was faster. Stronger. Smarter. Silent, and extremely effective. June has always been good, Jason, but tonight, she wasn't just good—she was _trained_. She was better than me, Bourne. Better than _Outcome_. And I need to find out how."

Turning, I looked at Monroe. She looked different than I remembered her. Slightly older, yes, as must I, but it was more than that. Her face was hard and troubled, even in sleep, as if she had seen things most can't imagine. As if she had done them.

"I need to find out why," I repeated.

Jason nodded again. "Okay. When she wakes, we'll question her. We'll get your answers. And then… It's your call."

I nodded. I knew what he meant.

 _It's your call._

My call whether June Monroe, whoever she may be now, should be allowed to live, or be labeled too much of a threat to keep alive.

"She's waking up," Bourne suddenly said in a low tone, rising from his chair.

Spinning around, I watched as, true to his word, our prisoner began to regain consciousness.

With a groan, she shifted in her position on the floor against the wall, her head lulling to the left and then slowly raising. Suddenly, her entire form went rigid, the handcuffs rasping against the piping of the urinals as she must have come to and realized were she was and her situation. With a jerk of the head, bright brown eyes glared coldly at both Jason and I.

If looks could kill…

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," Jason commented dryly by my side, folding his arms.

I kept silent, my face a careful mask, watching her closely.

I'm not sure what reaction I was expecting, but the one I got didn't make the list.

Throwing her head back, the woman before us laughed—not the bright, contagious sound I remembered, but a harsh, scornful laugh, as if we were the brunt of some awful joke.

"Jason Bourne," she cooed, turning to look at him, a cold smirk still on her lips, her voice perfect and clear. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Beside me, Jason frowned. "I don't know you."

"Of course not," she answered smartly. "But I know all about you. The rogue operative who singlehandedly caused the death of over a score of government agents, just so that he could solve his little adolescent identity crisis. Really Bourne, I thought you reached puberty thirty years ago."

Bourne opened his mouth to reply, but the woman before us was already moving on, this time, turning her head to look at me.

"And Kenny…" she exhaled smoothly, almost in a patronizing sigh. "The stupid little army brat who didn't know which way to point a muzzle. Not so stupid now, are we, Cross? Look at you, all stone, muscle, and little blue pills." She smirked, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you need some of those pills to get it up for your precious Doctor?"

It hurt, I confess, to see what I had considered to be one of my closest friends look me in the eye with scorn, but no matter what I was feeling, I didn't let an ounce of it reach my face.

I'd be damned if the man before her wasn't the hardened assassin I was trained to be.

"What happened to you, Monroe?" I asked, my voice hard, and tone more of a command than a question.

"What happened is you screwed up!" she shot back, tossing her head defiantly to get the hair out of her face. "You screwed up bad. What did you think, Kitsom? Huh? You think you could stick your bloodstained hands where they shouldn't be? Wash them off, and walk away, calling yourself innocent? Oh, but of course, cause you're poor stupid little Kenneth Kitsom, always the _victim._ Well you're wrong. You're dead wrong. And now you started something no one ever was meant to do. That no one ever survives."

She chuckled, a bright, melodious sound, that somehow sounded infinitely ominous. "You pissed him off. You _really_ pissed him off. And now… we're coming for you."

"Who's him? Who's we?" I demanded, with narrowed eyes.

"You know what I think?" she began again, completely ignoring my question, her voice light and cheery. "I think I'll start with your little boy. I haven't skinned anyone alive in a while, and it might be fun with a kid. The screaming is always the best part."

A few feet away, my hands began shaking, my breath inhaling through my nose sharply.

My mask was slipping.

Monroe saw it, and smiled.

"As for your wife… She's what? A few months pregnant? How about an impromptu C-section, so we can see if it's a boy or girl. Would you like that? A few seconds to see what might have been, before they both die?"

With a guttural cry of rage, I lunged at her.

It was a mistake. I knew it would be the moment my brain sent signals to my body to move, but I couldn't help it in the moment.

As for Monroe, it was the action she was waiting for. The instant I made a move for her, using the urinals as leverage, she locked her arms and hoisted herself up, her legs shooting out to wrap around my neck at the exact same moment I reached her. With a twist, we both went down together, while in the chaos of bodies, breath, and clanging of chains against porcelain, I heard the distinct snap of a bone.

It was an old trick. Really the only way to get out of handcuffs without a key, though painful as it required you to break your thumbs.

Monroe had baited me into giving her the leverage needed to complete the action, and cause enough havoc to distract both Jason and I enough for her to move into the offensive.

Her legs still wrapped about my neck on top of me in a déjà vu moment, my elbow snapped up to strike her across the face, but she blocked the blow with her forearm, so with a change of tactic, I gripped that arm like a vice, twisting it painfully away from her, while my other hand snapped up to tangle in her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking her head back.

She gave a small grunt of pain, before her knee snapped up by my face to connect with my jaw, my grip instinctually loosening and allowing her to roll away.

With me down, and June free a few feet away, Bourne drew his weapon and raised it to aim at Monroe; though before he could pull the trigger, her foot snapped up to kick the weapon out of his hands. A quick follow through with her other foot, and Bourne fell heavily on his side, his feet taken out from under him.

I watched June's eyes follow hungrily the progress of the gun as it skittered across the floor, her legs bunching up underneath her as she got her balance and sprang for it.

But I was faster.

Grabbing her shirt, I yanked her back again, causing her to stumble enough for me to slide in behind her and wrap an arm about her neck in a tight chokehold—and though she fought and thrashed, I maintained my grip.

Throwing her weight back, she tried to make my grip loosen by slamming my back against the floor, but I wouldn't let go, even as she clawed bloody nail marks into my arms and tried to reach my face - writhing and arching her back.

For a solid minute she fought for freedom and air, each attempt getting slowly more and more pitiful, until at long last she went limp.

"Jason, get the chains!" I cried, withdrawing my arm the moment she slipped into a coma. I didn't want to kill her.

Not yet.

While I scrambled out from underneath June and caught the gun Jason tossed to me, turning to train it on her from a safe distance, Jason ran out of the room to where we both knew there were a pile of chains in the back of the pickup outside. In a few moments, he returned with the five gallon bucket filled with them, and both of us taking an arm, we dragged Monroe back over the urinals and chained her in place - taking no shortcuts this time.

She wasn't about to get out twice.

"You got a crazy taste in girlfriends, Cross," Jason breathed out with an incredulous laugh. "That bitch is insane!"

"I think I know why…." I responded, busy studying something that had come off in my hands in the struggle.

With a curious tilt of the head, Jason came over to look.

In my hand was a beat up metal dog tag - almost an exact replica of the one I wore in Outcome. Except, this time, instead of the familiar program name inscribed on the back, there was something else entirely.

 _Elysium - 03_

"She's one of us, Bourne…. She's a program participant."

Inside, there were three neat little rows of blood red pills.

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 **A/N:**

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